


the promise of heaven

by leonhartous (orphan_account)



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:52:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/leonhartous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>we don't need that. — set of seven drabbles made for Sweet Tooth week on tumblr. really old stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. icarus

_“Never regret thy fall, / O Icarus of the fearless flight / For the greatest tragedy of them all / Is never to feel the burning light.” — Oscar Wilde_

Somehow, she is like the sun.

He has seen her twice - maybe three times at best - before. He remembers seeing her in flight, iridescent wings reflecting light and transforming it into a myriad of colors; several hues of reds, greens and blues appearing and disappearing on the thin air like magic. A wonderful magical trick, there is no doubt regarding that, and she was the only one that could perform it. The hungry artist that resided inside of him always made his body and neck move and follow her at the corner of his eyes while he hid the eggs the night before Easter Sunday.

It was more out of habit than anything else; to observe beautiful things he could not comprehend.

He tried to memorize all the interesting details about that unknown fairy, the colors of her feathers, the disarray of patterns they formed on her body and the way green suddenly changed to purple. Her hands and feet were so very small, dandy almost, and he wondered if she really could perform her work – whatever it was – with them. She seemed so easy to break, like the stems of the dandelions that grow in the Warren, delicate and so effortlessly surrendering to the wind. The fairy – whose name he still has to learn – was quite an exquisite being and, that intrigued him even more so.

It was quite a surprise, when years later they became Guardians and finally met per see.

Toothiana was a good friend; of that he was sure. Certainly different, with all her perky ways and small obsessions, but still a good friend. She guarded memories with a passionate zeal and treated her tiny helpers as if they were her own children – and no one can deny they were truly – and there was something else entirely about her, something he couldn’t bring himself to touch. Not yet. He was too afraid to do so.

There were times when she visited him on his home and organized his paints by hue, from darkest to lightest or from green to red and when she wasn’t satisfied the fairy would start all over again, he would brew some tea and try to convince her that that way was fine. So methodical and perfectionist she could almost compete with him. Tooth was sweet, like the fresh honey dripping from its comb, even if she always said she didn’t really liked sweets and promptly refused to taste his newest creations of chocolate and candy. He never really took offense by that, their fields of work never straining their friendship.

And he would always observe her, out of the corner of his eye or directly when they spoke. It took him some time to realize why.

She is light and she is the sun and she gleams so bright he is afraid he will end up blind, with darkness all around him and far away from her light. He can’t help staring, can’t help the urge he has to be bathed by her brilliance and it is scary, his self-preservation instincts scream at him for doing so. When you are kept in a dark place for too long you need the sun, you embrace it like a condemned would to salvation. He has been in the dark for far too long – and he prefers to not dwell much in the past, the screams of his family haunting him at night -, maybe that’s why he is so attracted to her shine. A bit of warmth wouldn’t harm anyone and, he wished he could absorb a bit of it, of her cheerfulness.

But he wonders sometimes. If she is the sun than maybe he is Icarus, flying bold and fearless around her.

He wonders how long it will take for him to fall.

(Maybe he has already)


	2. puzzle pieces

_“Here I am_ _/ leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome / burns. We are all / just trying to be holy. My applejack, / my silent night, just mash your lips against me. / We are all going forward. None of us are going back.”_ — Richard Siken

 

She has always had a soft spot for the subtle things.

 

Not direct, not brash. Just a few hints here and there that could lead to something more, the final prize. She liked the idea, the thrill of the chase, liked to think of solutions and answers and probably that obsession came along with being so methodically multi-tasked; organizing a fairy army and millions of children’s teeth was no easy work after all.

 

Toothiana liked puzzles, liked to separate the pieces to make the whole figure. She enjoyed riddles and rhymes and all those little logical games that some people might not think so amusing. For her it was fun, to think and think and think until the answers came around with that proud feeling of accomplishment that never failed to spread from her wings to the tips of her tiptoes.

 

She simply adored the thrilling excitement of solving things, maybe that is why she also liked the idea of being a puzzle herself.

 

The fairy wanted her friends – everyone – to like her small games as much as she did, wanted them to have fun while solving difficult questions. So she decided to be a mystery of her own. She never really spoke all of her feelings out loud, at least not the ones that were deepest, most precious – the almighty queen that resided within her heart was too proud to let them all out. Toothiana preferred to be subtle instead. She always demonstrated her feelings with small actions, clues she enjoyed to drop every once in a while.

 

A reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, little smiles, excited waves. Hints her fellow Guardian friends and tiny fairies never failed to take notice. They knew she loved them very much and she was grateful for that, to know that her own actions spoke volumes when telling what she felt, for sometimes she could be so bubbly and clumsy that if she would try to voice her thoughts they would probably come out all incomprehensible and nonsensical.

 

They could solve her so well.

 

But there is still one part of her left to be uncovered, a precious part of her heart that sometimes would twist in pain for being hidden for so long. There was just one person that would ever be able to solve it though, so she waited patiently like she always did, and spread clues – sometimes too obvious - on her smiles, the brief hugs and sudden visits; at the tiny love hints that rested at the corners of her mouth and all over her eyes. She hoped he would realize it someday soon.

 

He will, she is sure of that.

 

( _He is still collecting the scattered puzzle pieces she leaves behind, a knowing smile while doing so_.)


	3. kill me softly

_“I remember awakening one morning and finding everything smeared with the color of forgotten love.”_ — Charles Bukowski

 

When he realized it, it was already too late.

 

Maybe it was because they have been friends since eons ago, maybe it was one of those things that should never be discovered at all - Bunnymund doesn’t knows - the only thing he was aware of at the time was the steady rhythm of his heart. Fast, so fast he could hear a small ringing noise, the telltale of his blood rushing on his vessels. When he realized it – _but not admitted it out loud per se_ \- he did the best he could to keep track of that uncontrollable, unreasonable giddy heartbeat that cursed him. It took him some time to comprehend that it was useless to try and stop _it_ at that point of the story.

 

It started with the way her hand squeezed his shoulder as if silently telling him that the boisterous winter spirit would be a good Guardian, the small of her hands leaving tingles beneath his fur. He remembers stirring a bit at that, body trembling like a leaf on autumn, the pace of his heart rising and bringing heat to his cheeks; and he remembers so vividly the cold that he felt when she removed her hand from him. The Guardian of hope was left confused, Toothiana had touched him – even embraced him – several times before and nothing like that had ever happened, he decided to brush it aside in hopes that – if he ignored it – it would go away as if had never existed. It is needless to tell that it didn’t go as he had planned.

 

That feeling – the rapid pace of his heart, that odd sensation - only grew with the help of time. It would start as a small spark tiny and harmless inside his chest, and then it would spread throughout his body until the tips of his ears, pooling on his belly and sinking there until he thought he could no longer walk from the weight. It was ridiculous and it hurt his pride directly at its core.

 

At his notion that he would always be okay just by himself.

 

That stupid feeling made him want to be close to her, whenever he could, if he was busy or not. It made him ache for her touch, for her arms wrapping around his waist, to shamelessly desire her soft pliable lips against his own. _Ridiculous, ridiculous, ridiculous._ Only the thought made him want to burry himself alive and never walk out of the dark deep hole again. How could he ever want her so much? Toothiana, his dear friend, Toothiana who treated his wounds and organized his brushes and paints, who visited him when loneliness was close at his door, who he would fight side by side with. The delicate fairy that scolded him when work got too hectic, when his perfectionism screamed louder at him. _Toothiana, Toothiana, Toothiana._

 

 

It almost makes him want to cry in desperation because he is lost, _oh so lost_. Bunnymund aches for her presence beside him, feels his chest tight with a feeling so big he is afraid it will make his heart burst someday. She is like Erato, his inspiration, his everything and the pathetic poet inside him stretches his arms hopelessly trying to reach her, the unreachable muse that spreads her wings like sunlight.

 

She will be the death of him. Her smile and the whispers exchanged with a certain bringer of ice and snow, the giggles and her ignorance towards his feelings, the way she hugs him on an uncompromised way and the softness of her body pressed against his, the way his hands tremble, resisting the urge to guide her lips to his, to press her against him even further. The way Sandy looks at him and gives him a reassuring smile, one that promised a good dream at night. Maybe his is dying; maybe she is the one holding the knife.

 

( _He only hopes she will do it softly_ )

**Author's Note:**

> I sort of forgot to post this here, silly me.


End file.
